


a discovery of unnoticed unique talents

by iniquiticity



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon Era, Gen, Posted Drafts, Stream of Consciousness, Worldbuilding Disguised as Conversational Character Study, please put me in Meaningful Capitalization of Nouns jail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 18:31:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12195333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: He did not understand how Hamilton's spell-results matched the power that he felt flickers of, when he Looked for it.(a drabble about sorcerers and wizards and culture.)





	a discovery of unnoticed unique talents

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who aren't dungeons and dragons nerds, there are two kinds of magic: sorcerers, who do magic 'from the soul', and wizards, who study spellbooks to do magic. Anyway, got into a long discussion with @showerdownbonanza on tumblr about what would happen if socerery was 'acceptable' and wizardy was 'slum magic.' she also did some [really amazing fanart](https://iniquiticity.tumblr.com/post/165622651214/showerdownbonanza-little-hamilton-learns-magic). 
> 
> It got a little long for tumblr so now it's here, in it's marginally incomprehensible form. Anyway, shoot me questions on tumblr if you want to talk more about this. Maybe I'll even reply to comments this time!
> 
> [here's some other context from my tumblr](https://iniquiticity.tumblr.com/post/165353787549/caltalar-replied-to-your-post-is-wizard) about me rambling about magic if you care.

washington had not specifically requested sorcerers for the aides, but it was a known useful trait to be able to flick on lamps and do some other minor cantrips required, and so as a result he acquired some. They were in various levels of schooling, as young men tended to be, and seemed to have only momentarily grasped the various lessons about harnessing your soulstuff for magic, and bending your will into form. 

which better than nothing - he of course, having left the lessons early just as well. But Lawrence had been accomplished, and taught him on the side, and it was at least nice that his spells had strong forms and he had a good understanding of the correct mental model and discipline for casting. Most of the magic they had cast during the war so far had been defensive - toe-to-toe (or spirit-to-spirit, as it was), their little army would have been obliterated by the sheer force of the british regulars. and the retreat had been fueled by him harnassing their collective terror. and his, of course. to imagine this would be the war, with these cowards, but at least they were ferocious cowards, and that could be used --

to spread spirit low-hanging over their boats, foglike. to silence rocking waves with soulstuff foam. boots hitting the ground like feet on carpet. 

you learned the most about your own strength in times of need, they taught him, long ago. 

but yes. no time for wandering. now his recommended aides, all with some hint of strength. the last one had done terrible cantrips but he had been a brilliant young man. impossible such a man with such strength that glowed inside him could not have been sent to spellschool, unless there had been extenuating circumstances. henry knox - not a drip in magic in him, but exceptionally well-read on all the books of magic, and that was good enough when you were this army, not to mention all the books on everything else for that matter - had said there were extenuating circumstances. (”from king’s college. but not originally. my suspicion, and you can keep it to yourself if you please, would be a sugar island. and rich monsters don’t leave sugar islands, and also don’t change the subject when asked about their families.”) 

(washington had neglected, tactfully, to mention his count among the monsters he suspected knox referenced. _northeners._ ) 

but based on the embarrassment that was the army so far, sugar island boys with far less cantrips than they should based on their extenuating circumstances would have to do. as would portly booksellers, as one would have it. 

the boy’s name was hamilton, and he was not like other boys, regardless of the oddness of his magic. the more washington came to know him, the more he found it impossible he had not either blown himself up with his temper or compressed it into something useful. hamilton would have seen and heard him do magic; certainly he did not intentionally handicap himself. there was a mystery about it. had he not been concentrating on losing slightly less, he would have examined it. but losing was hard work, apparently, and worse with this embarrasment. _northeners._

he slept less and the aides worked more. some of them were better than others; some became assigned to other places; some died. hamilton remained. he slept less and hamilton worked more, and when he did sleep he had troubled, unrestful dreams that he woke early from. 

one day he dreamed he was hanged and did not die. he dreamed often about being hanged, but this time he hung there, and was pelted by fruit and bullets, and yet still not die, kicking and struggling awkwardly, until he startled himself away and checked himself for holes and tomato seeds. still dark outside. he lit a flame. if he concentrated he could hear the snores of the other aides. outside small fires crackled and men stood watch. 

inside he felt the thread of magic. a strange, unfamiliar thread. an odd sort of weaving he did not recognize. it could be dangerous, but moreso in the early morning hours he was curious - he put on his breeches and his boots and his undershirt and reached out to the thread, felt it. down the hallway. through a door. he pressed his ear to it, pressed his will to the front of his skin, in case -- 

\-- hamilton bent over a book, whispering to himself. the thread bulged wide around him, tied him to the pages. he had not heard washington open the door. 

a spellbook. hamilton required a spellbook for his magic. the unkind word for what hamilton was was _bookie_. book mage, wizard. a spell reader. 

ah. so that was how he managed all that personality. and that would lead to the terrible cantrips: perhaps he had not prepared that. washington knew something about this magic. it was ridiculed, among other families. hamilton would have known, if he had gone to king’s college. certainly he would think a virginia man of wealth such as himself would never keep a sugar island boy who required a book for magic. 

he winked the flame out of existence and closed the door, covering the thread behind him. he sat on hamilton’s bed and watched him, bent shoulders, head bowed, a little whisper of words like a stream from his lips. washington felt the magic vibrate from both of them. it was different from sorcery, but he could not ignore the power. in this army he could not afford to ignore such things. and hamilton already had so many talents. he liked many things about the boy. 

the power settled inside hamilton. the threads withdrew, slowly. hamilton took a breath and tilted his head back, and reached down and closed the book. washington looked with his Other sight and saw the magic coalesce around and inside him, solidify like stained wood, harden like ice. He looked again and --

\-- oh, this genius young man. of course he had not Looked, because he had always felt something like pity for those sad cantrips and the extenuating circumstances that gave a man with such talent no results. but he had merely not Looked in the right way, or perhaps he had looked but not Seen, because a shift of his frame of mind and it made sense, and the boy was brilliant, if someone had Looked they might have Seen, and he had layered the wards so intricately and so skillfully that you had to be looking for them to see them. first all the regular ones to protect himself - so he could not be scried, or his mind read, or his intentions found, things he must have learned somewhere if not classes - and then another layer on top of that to hide those wards, and then a third layer to make him seem like he was only a sad poor sugar island boy, who had some rudimentary talent and nothing more. 

A magnificent work of subterfuge. From a book! From a book wizard! From a book wizard with extenuating circumstances from a sugar island! It was the sort of spellwork that would have acquired top marks from any formal sorcerer. 

“Dear god,” he said, without meaning to, and Hamilton heard him. 

Hamilton stared at him, and his spellbook, and him again, and the book, and the door. his mouth twitched with the beginning of an excuse. An apology, perhaps. His resignation, or-- 

“This is a fantastic work of hiding your true skill,” he said, before Hamilton could, “Is there anyone you have not fooled?” 

He had taken the boy aback. Good. He would feel obliged to answer the question, because it was the sort of boy he was, and also that Washington had long learned how to impress truth in his questions. “A few,” he answered, after a stunned moment, “But most think me some sort of ......” another twitch of his mouth, unsure of how to grasp the words. 

“Some potential talent, never grown by extenuating circumstances.” 

“A magical cripple.” Hamilton glanced back at the spellbook, still open on his desk. Washington looked over at it, saw familiar handwriting, small and neat. “But the results are better, I find, than being a bookie.” 

“An unkind word for oneself.”

Hamilton rolled his eyes. “Wizard,” he said, like it was bookie. 

“Given the quality of the army, as you are most well-informed, I can say with some certainty that I am much more interested in the strength and intensity of your spells than where they have come from, and would be greatly obliged if you would pin down even a fragment of the deception to bring what I suspect is great power to bear on behalf of the cause,” Washington said. 

Hamilton stared at him. Washington felt the prickle of magic in himself. Was this a trap? Was this only for Washington to know how terribly he depended on the books? Was it only for Washington to find some weakness in him? Was this to destroy him with? He folded back his own wards, spread his arms. 

_See that all I want is to have the most capable people by my side, and if that means a bookseller with not a drip of magic inside him and a wizard, I would agree to it in a heartbeat._

Hamilton Saw. Hamilton withdrew and stared at him. He himself had struggles, but from his understanding he had no such extenuating circumstances. he had not been a boy from a sugar island that despite obvious talent, had not been admitted to a school, and instead had taken to wizardry, and had come to a strange place he did not know to fight in a war with the whole of his wild intensity -- 

“sir,” hamilton said, and he glanced back at the spellbook and closed it, and looked outside to beginnings of the sunrise, “it will be morning soon. you should get dressed.” 

“Colonel,” he said, and stood slowly, looking at the book, an then the window, “I admit to being in unexplored territory regarding your unique talents. As I find often, these days. I hope you will present to me solutions that are customized to your skillset, when you believe them to be the best resolution to our myriad of problems. It is extraordinarily valuable to me to have a diverse set of opinions. I will make sure you see no harm from expressing thoughts that may be different from our going wisdom.” 

Hamilton did not look at him. Hamilton looked back at the book, then at the window, then at the book again. Then, finally, he turned and bowed his head, his face an unfamiliar mask of hidden emotions. “Yes, Your Excellency. It would be my pleasure.” 

“Thank you, colonel,” he said.


End file.
